


sold my soul to a three-piece

by harpers_mirror (SapphireBryony)



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Cutter is his own warning, F/M, M/M, Post-Hephaestus, Threats of Violence, dark and bloody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-30 13:45:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6426256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireBryony/pseuds/harpers_mirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wishes for a lot of things these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. as happily an ever-after as they’re ever going to get

Coming home wasn’t supposed to be like this.

They were supposed to defy the odds, come crashing down to Earth in their ragtag underdog shuttle, cause a ruckus, bring down Goddard.

They were supposed to _win._

Instead, here they are. Safe on the ground but still under Cutter’s thumb. Brought back in disgrace and failure by the smiling heroes of the Urania.

It wasn’t supposed to be like _this._

They were supposed to still be together, survivors til the end.

Now Lovelace is gone. Vanished at the first chance to run and he can’t blame her. He hopes she’s still alive somewhere, that she at least has her freedom, and wishes her all the luck they never had, that he long ago accepted wasn’t his to have.

He wishes for a lot of things these days.

Like for the dark circles to fade from under Minkowski’s eyes. He knows she’s not sleeping, he knows she still has the nightmares, he knows the Goddard-approved shrink isn’t helping, is probably making things _worse_ and god, he wants to go to her, to hug her and try to make her laugh again. 

If he could hear her laugh, then maybe everything would be okay. 

But he can’t go to her, can’t even hardly talk to her, or to her poor, clueless husband who loves her but just doesn’t understand, _can’t_ understand, wasn’t there in the dark with her, never felt the unique desperation of having your life brutally upended endless times. 

He keeps her at arm’s length because it’s not safe to get any closer, because she’ll see in an instant what’s going on and try to stop him and someone he loves will die. Or she'll pull away from him in disgust and that might actually kill him. And then who would they have left to protect them?

He wishes he could call out in the night and know that Hera would respond, had to respond, that she was there in the dark with him. But she’s gone too. They took her away from him, from the carefully-wrapped bundle he’d insisted Kepler make space for. Maxwell had shut her down, in the end, but even the weight of the device that contained her, snug in his arms, was a comfort, a promise that when they got home, she’d be waiting and she’d be his best girl again.

And then she wasn’t. And then Cutter took her and shipped her off to some lab and god only knew what they’d done to her.

Cutter showed him a picture of the lab once, of the place where he said they were working with Hera. (Or maybe he’d said “working **on** Hera,” Doug genuinely couldn’t remember through the haze of desperation and self-medication that had become his life on Earth.) 

Cutter showed it to him along with a shot of a cabin in the woods somewhere that he claimed was Lovelace’s hide-out, and another of Minkowski getting out of her car in her building’s parking lot. That last one actually had crosshairs drawn on it, framing Renée’s head, which was exactly the kind of cliched supervillain move he’d come to expect from Cutter, the kind of thing that turned his stomach with fear even as he rolled his eyes at the melodrama.

Cutter hadn’t appreciated that eyeroll, and Doug had the scars to prove it. They sat comfortably alongside the old ones, joined by new ones nightly, badges of loyalty, reminders that he would rather bleed, would rather be left curled up in a ball under red and sticky sheets than let anything happen to them.

_“Do this one little thing for me, Doug, and they live as happily ever after as they’re ever going to get.”_

_“Do this for me and they live.”_

_“Do this for me...unless you’d rather_ not. _Unless you’d rather I send someone to pick up Renée and bring her over here to join in the fun. Would you like that, Doug? Would you like to have her join us? I know there was a time when you_ quite _enjoyed having her around - oh don’t look so surprised, Doug! Hera was still recording even after Alexander ‘killed’ her, after all. Renée’s quite the dominant one, isn’t she! Very...forceful. Not my usual type, but for you, Doug, I’d be happy to make an exception.”_

And he’d given in almost shamefully fast, felt an absurd sense of pride as he’d let himself be used, knowing that he was finally doing something useful, something helpful.

This was his role to play in the bizarre cautionary tale that was their lives. He was the one who took the blows so they didn’t have to, who felt the pain and the humiliation and the tired, pointless anger for them. Their safety was bought and paid for night after night after endless, starless night.

This was finally something he could be proud of. He could picture their faces in the dark, hear their voices in his ear, and know he was doing his part.


	2. our first kiss/a slap on the wrist

_She’s backlit by the glow of the star and everything feels hazy and dreamlike, which could just be the sleep deprivation talking. But Doug is sure he’s never felt quite like this before in his life, his breath caught in his throat as he looks at the red-glowing form wrapped around him, all muscle and sleek grace and a certain relentless energy that keeps him going even now._

_She spins them around, pressing him up against the window of the station and hanging onto a rail above his head, pressing their foreheads together and kissing him hungrily...._

The image flickers jumpily on the big screen and the things he feels now are so far removed from how he felt then that it barely feels like the same act.

Maybe it isn’t. Whatever weird and kind of awesome thing they’d had, it had been about trust and loyalty and the only way they’d known how to ask for or give comfort in that long, endless night.

And now it is twisted. Violated. Perverted by the man whispering in his ear as he thrusts into him.

 _“Renée looks so lovely there, doesn’t she Doug? You were punching_ way _above your weight class with her, weren’t you, buddy?”_

_“Having a little trouble with the ‘no gravity’ thing, weren’t ya? Whoops, careful there! Ouch, that looked like it hurt!”_

_“Oh, here we go, this is my favorite part: _there!_ Look at the expression on your face! Priceless.”_

He realizes with a sickening jolt that the last cutting comment is directed at a moment he can remember with perfect clarity: the moment where Renée had shuddered and tightened around him, throwing her head back in surprised ecstasy. He’d gazed at her in wonderment, memorizing her face, the way the light of the star threw her features into sharp relief, the way she’d slowly opened her eyes and looked at him with _actual_ desire rather than just the desire to feel something other than fear or desperation or sadness.

Mr. Cutter moans low in his ear, right in time with Minkowski on the recording and something inside him dies quietly.

This, Doug thinks miserably as the other man leaves the room to clean himself up...this isn’t about any of those good or lovely things. It’s about power, plain and simple. Power, and one man’s delight at destroying another.

“So, what did you think?” At his captive’s silence, Cutter chuckles. “Aw, not talking to me now, Dougie? That’s fine...for now. I expect better cooperation when I come back out there. Anyway,” he continues over the rush of water, “I think we ought to try that again, at least once. Really get the timing right.”

Eiffel collapses onto the bed, buries his face in a pillow, and screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [type_here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/type_here/pseuds/type_here), [station_oracle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/station_oracle/pseuds/station_oracle), and [smilodonmeow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/smilodonmeow) for their assistance with this story so far.


	3. the bringer of peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short and sour, more actual content to come shortly

The music filters into his dreams slowly. The dream itself had been bad enough already - he was lost in the labyrinthine halls of the Hephaestus, calling for Hera and receiving no answer.

_ “She’s gone, Doug,”  _ murmurs a sing-song voice in his ear, hot breath tickling his ear and making him shudder.  _ “She’s gone and you couldn’t save her. You couldn’t save any of them” _

_ “I tried!”  _ he tells the voice.  _ “I did everything I could!” _

Mocking laughter.  _ “Oh Doug, the day  _ you _ do everything asked of you will be the day hell freezes over. Let’s not forget what you are, deep down.” _

_ “I  _ tried - ”

_ “And surprise! You failed. Just like you always have. Just like you always will. And they’ll always be the ones to pay for your failure...” _

The voice trails off, replaced by the music growing louder. The gentle strains hit Doug like a thrown punch, and he places the melody a moment later, crashing into the bulkhead as he continues to stumble through the halls of the station.

It’s the Venus movement from Holst’s  _ The Planets. _ It’s the music Hera was playing when Hilbert lobotomized her.

_ “HERA!”  _ he screams.  _ “Hera, please, no, talk to me, sweetheart. You can’t be gone again, you can’t- ” _

_ “I cannot take requests right now,”  _ comes the politely robotic reply.  _ “Please try again later.” _

He screams, a wordless cry of anguish and jolts awake, looking frantically around the room. Cutter’s room, he realizes as he starts to come back to himself, though his captor is nowhere to be seen.

He is alone in the darkness, sitting in a tangle of sweat-soaked covers with only horribly familiar music drifting from hidden speakers for company.

He does not give voice to the question that springs immediately to mind, which is  _ “Why would he do this?”  _ because the answer follows close behind it:  _ “Because he  _ can.”


	4. nothing left to lose and nothing more to take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, y'all. This is the part where it starts to get _rough._

He’s known it was only a matter of time before he snapped, though he’s tried to fight it, tries to be strong and brave and other words people might use to describe Minkowski or Lovelace, or even Hera, but never Doug Eiffel.

(The amazing women that surround him deserve so much better than him as their champion. But he’s what they’re stuck with.)

He lets them down.

During one particularly rough and brutal night, he flinches away from Cutter’s touch - and immediately freezes in horror, the ramifications of what he’s done flooding his mind. His initial instinct is to beg and grovel and plead for forgiveness, to debase himself a little more. If it buys her one more night of safety and peace, it would be worth it.

He _wants_ to, but stays still and tongue-tied. The sudden silence rolls over him like a dry-ice fog from the far side of the large bed.

“Oh Doug.” The smiling voice curls around him, relishing every word. _“Doug._ I knew this would happen someday, but I just didn’t want to believe it. Though I suppose you are still _you.”_ The other man rolls out of bed with a theatrical sigh of disappointment. “I thought you cared more about her than that...”

There’s the click of a phone being unlocked and then comes the message that stops his heart. “Malachi? Yes. Initiate Eiffel Protocol M.” Eiffel’s vision greys out at the words. Cutter continues without a pause. “Mhmm. Just as discussed. Yes, I know it’s late, but you can either do it now or find yourself in a world of new and creative pain come Monday morning. If not sooner. Hmm? Perfect.”

The phone drops with a careless clatter and the bed shifts. Cutter comes into view, standing in front of Doug.

“See Doug?” he asks, caressing the other man’s cheek before digging his nails into the side of his neck and forcing his gaze upwards. “I’m a man of my word.” Cutter lets him go and makes for the bathroom to grab his dressing gown. Belting it around his waist, he looks Eiffel over disdainfully. “Clean yourself up. We have company coming.”

Cutter leaves the room. When he’s gone, Doug curls into a ball, twisting his hands into the sheets and screaming through closed teeth into the tangle of fabric. 

The scream gives way to silent sobs that give way to exhausted, ragged breathing. His split lip begins to bleed sluggishly and he wipes it away half-heartedly, before dragging his other hand across his eyes. He feels the sting in his mouth, feels the soreness in his entire body and brighter points of pain in his back and neck, tokens of Cutter’s affection. It is all dulled and remote. There is terror and dread and shame and a thousand other jumbled emotions, but he is numbed by the shock of what is happening, of how badly he has messed up and what that is going to mean. 

In a daze, he forces himself to his feet. He tugs on his jeans and pulls a crumpled tee shirt over his head, wincing as the fabric catches on the fresh wounds criss-crossing his back. He splashes some water on his face, runs a shaking hand through his tousled hair, and avoids looking his reflection in the eye. 

* * *

Twenty-five long minutes later, a suited, unsmiling man accompanies a wide-eyed and upset Renée Minkowski into the room, then turns and takes up a guard’s stance in the hallway outside.

“Eiffel?” she asks in a tone he recognizes as the one she uses when she’s scared but trying to sound brave. “Are you - are you okay? What’s going on?” She makes her way over to the armchair where he sits and rests a tentative hand on his shoulder. His gaze remains fixed on his hands in his lap.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking on the last word. Renée’s hand tightens its grip and she kneels in front of him..

“Doug, talk to me,” she says, her voice low and urgent. “What is going _on_ here, where - ”

“Good evening, Renée!” Cutter glides into the room, a bottle of wine tucked under one arm and three glasses in his free hand. He sets all this down on a side table and closes the door behind him with a very final-sounding _bang._ Minkowski jumps to attention, though she keeps a protective hand on Doug.

Eiffel looks up in time to see the blood drain from his former commander’s face. He reaches up and carefully place his hand over hers. Normally he wouldn’t just touch her like that without permission, but he’s pretty sure he knows exactly how bad this night is about to get and indulges himself, taking and giving whatever measure of comfort he can from the contact.

God knows, after tonight he’ll probably never be able to speak to her again, let alone touch her. The thought cuts like a knife - she was the one friend he had left in the hellscape that was his life, his only constant, even as he’d pushed her away for her own protection. She hadn’t understood, hadn’t known what was going on, but she’d stayed around, had kept trying, had let him know she cared in a dozen tiny subtle ways. Their bond was frayed, but intact. Doug’s sure whatever is about to happen will sever it into a thousand unraveled strands.

“Good evening, sir,” Minkowski ventures cautiously. He can hear the strain in her voice and knows Cutter hears it too because his shark-like grin widens.

“Pleasure to see you, as always. Bet you’re wondering why you’re here, huh?” He uncorks the wine with a deft gesture and pours three generous glasses.

“Yes sir.” She’s fully in wary watchful mode now, the kind of careful circumspection that got her home from space reasonably intact. He can feels her palm sweating and he wants more than anything to drag her out of here and run, and never look back, but the risk is too high and they’d never make it past the suited gorilla keeping watch outside.

“Well, you see,” Cutter continues, offering each of them a glass. Minkowski takes one but does not drink from it. Eiffel downs his in a single gulp. “Doug here broke a promise to me.” He takes a sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving the pair of them. It lingers a moment on their joined hands and his smile widens even more. “He knew what the consequences would be if he did, he knew exactly who would get hurt if he did, and yet, he did it anyway. Because sometimes - and Renée, I know you know this better than _anyone,_ having tried to manage his sorry self for so many years - Doug only thinks about himself. About what he wants, rather than what others expect of him. Whether that’s the last tube of toothpaste for 8 light years around, or...other things. Just no consideration for what other people want or need.”

During this little speech, Cutter begins to walk a slow circle around them, appraisingly, sizing them up, like a shark circling its prey. Eiffel is trembling and fighting against the tears that threaten to spill out. Minkowski has gone pale with fright, but still he envies her composure. If he’d been strong like that, if he could hold himself together like she could, if he could just _be better,_ none of this would be - 

“Selfish,” Cutter adds, pausing in front of the terrified pair. He pats Eiffel’s cheek a fond gesture with entirely too much force behind it. “And foolish too.” He glanced at Minkowski and grinned. “I tell you, Renée, whatever you did to him out there _did_ improve his self-esteem though. He actually -” and here, Cutter interjects a perfectly-calculated peal of laughter - “he actually thought he could be your knight in shining armor! Can you imagine?”

Cutter’s hand snakes its way into Eiffel’s hair and he squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry -” The hand tightens, jerks his head back, cutting off his frantic apologies and making him gasp in pain.

Cutter’s smile is as wide as ever as he turns Eiffel’s head, forcing him to look up at Minkowski. “And there you have it,” he says with a nasty chuckle. “Your Lancelot.” 

Through teary eyes, Eiffel gazes up at Minkowski, seeing the dread and the complete confusion in her reaction. Despite that, she looks away, meeting Cutter’s gaze levelly.

“Mr. Cutter, I would like some answers. I was dragged out of my house in the middle of the night, to find you holding a member of my former crew hostage. I am tired and more than a little upset and am _not_ in the mood for your games right now. I’d like some answers.” Her words are angry and clipped and Eiffel can see her hands clench into fists as she speaks.

Cutter feigns a pout. “Alright, Renée, have it your way. I was _hoping_ to have a moment to explain some things to you but...” He releases Doug, who drops back into the chair with a soft whimper. “Have it your way.”

Glancing down at his captive, he sighs heavily. “Dougie boy, don’t know how closely you were paying attention there, but did you catch how your Guinevere referred to you? ‘A member of her former crew.’” Cutter winces exaggeratedly. “Ouch! And here I thought your relationship was _significantly_ more...intimate...than that. Maybe...” He eyes the pair and his smile is back in full force, a creeping, spreading thing that makes Eiffel think briefly of the Space Mutant Plant Monster. “Maybe we just need to jog her memory!” 

Catching Eiffel by the hair again, he hauls him to his feet. “Get the video ready. You know the one. Then wait for me.” 

Eiffel shudders. “Please, sir, don’t hurt her. _Please._ You already have me, just don’t - ”

Cutter places a warning finger against Doug’s lips and he instantly quiets. “Doug. What kind of monster do you think I am? I wouldn’t dream of touching one hair on Renée’s lovely head. Now...the video. And don’t make me ask you again.”

Eiffel silently obeys, scrambling away and wincing as the wounds on his back began to bleed sluggishly again. He hears Minkowski’s sharp intake of breath as she sees the blood.

“What the hell have you been _doing -”_ she starts. 

Cutter cuts her off. “Nothing he didn't ask for, Renée. Nothing he didn't deserve.”

Doug hears her angry protestations begin again but a low ringing has begun in his ears and it muffles his hearing. 

* * *

Eiffel knows what’s coming but Minkowski doesn't - or doesn't want to believe it - and that makes this time even worse than the first time. Her shock and horror brings his flooding back to the surface; her outrage and threats serve as a weary reminder that he hadn't even really tried to protest. But she’s his loyal commander and protector to the end, threatening Cutter in a variety of colorful and creative ways.

Once upon a time, it would have mildly scandalized him to hear such talk from his straight-laced boss, even as it would have made him laugh. Now it rings like a mockery of better and happier times and is finally cut off by Cutter with a threat so specific they both know he’s not bluffing. Dominik is in the crosshairs here tonight as well, and the sick feeling in the pit of Eiffel’s stomach deepens.

The tape whirs to life. Eiffel chances a quick glance at Minkowski and wishes he hadn't. He sees the exact moment that the confusion is replaced by horror and winces.

 _“On top of everything else, sure, let's remind her of the biggest mistake she ever made,”_ he thinks, smothering a bitter chuckle. At the same time, he almost envies her vibrant emotions. His own feel dimmed and muted. It’s been so long since he was allowed to feel much of anything except what Cutter wanted him to feel.

Doug doesn't look at Minkowski again. He doesn't dare, not after Cutter gets things going, doesn't want to know what kind of disgust or horror or pity is written across her features just then. And he is determined to let nothing show on his own face and hurt her more.

As he stares blankly at the familiar tableau on the screen, he realizes the ringing in his ears is back. It slowly spreads over his entire body, blanketing Doug in a warm, numb haze that dulls his senses. 

It’s enough that he can almost block out the man behind him, and that’s something.

It’s enough that he can focus on keeping his features blank and emotionless, to spare Minkowski that additional source of pain. And that’s _everything._

_“Don't cry. Don't cry, not now, not now, not **now**."_ He chants in his head. The tears stay put and Doug is relieved. This was for her, to protect her and keep her safe. Even now, even though he had failed so completely, he still had to try.

 _“Not now, not now, not **now**.”_ He continues his mantra. They’ve hit that point in the tape again, the one where her face goes so beautifully surprised and Eiffel tries to call up that memory, to remember how that fleeting moment of joy had felt.

And just like before, Cutter moans low, right in his ear and Doug knows without looking that his gaze is fixed on Minkowski as he does it.

The tears slip free. Minkowski’s muffled sob blends discordantly with Cutter’s low, satisfied laugh.

Doug Eiffel has failed.


End file.
